


You think of sex when I spin in this dress, when I press down the sides of my skin

by Mikaeru



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Aziraphale Has a Vulva (Good Omens), Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Butch Aziraphale (Good Omens), Butch/Femme, Crowley Has A Vulva (Good Omens), Crowley Has a Praise Kink (Good Omens), F/F, HAROLD THEY'RE LESBIANS, Semi-Public Sex, Sexual Roleplay, She/Her Pronouns for Aziraphale (Good Omens), She/Her Pronouns for Crowley (Good Omens), Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), but it still ain't easy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-03
Updated: 2020-09-03
Packaged: 2021-03-06 18:41:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,151
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26273527
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mikaeru/pseuds/Mikaeru
Summary: “Well, since I'm not actually that cruel...”, she started again, leaving the smallest of kisses on Crowley's nose, neck, collarbones, “I'm going to kneel. Then, when you say the first good fact, I'm going to start kissing your ankles. Then your knees, maybe your thighs. Then your stomach, maybe your breasts if I'm feeling generous. And then...”A little public roleplay, a bratty Crowley, a "bit of a bastard" Aziraphale, the bonnet of the Bentley. A very usual April evening in London.The Oh So Famous "Crowley Has To Learn To Accept Compliments" kind of fic, but they're married lesbians. Inspired bythis gorgeous art.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 5
Kudos: 73





	You think of sex when I spin in this dress, when I press down the sides of my skin

**Author's Note:**

> I'm............ very slow. Almost a month ago I saw [the delicious art I mentioned in the summary](https://twitter.com/the_Silkbox/status/1293499798201331713) and my little queer heart went like "!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!" and I was like "I HAVE TO WRITE SOMETHING ABOUT THIS LEST I SHALL DIE". I didn't die, but it took me a fuckload of time before finishing this 4k pwp. (I'd like to say I have no shame, pwp-wise, but I'm, in fact, all shame. Goddamned Catholic childhood.)

The room was buzzing with something Crowley found incredibly soothing, but could possibly be screeching into the humans' ears, and the lights, orange and yellow and light cherry, were soft and sweet on her skin. She giggled like a schoolgirl at something she didn't find funny at all, but the man was buying a third cocktail, so she had to laugh. Another man, slightly more attractive than him, was feeding her crisps, and the most handsome of them was kissing her shoulder, keeping her steadily on his lap.

“Darling, you're making the others jealous,” she chided, tapping his cheek but otherwise making no attempt to make him stop, “and we don't want that, do we?”

The man let out a little growl, tightening his grip around her waist. He had a large chest, strong shoulders, and his skin was smooth, dark and lovely. “But I want to make clear who you're going home with tonight.”

“Oh?”, she smiled, linking her arm around his neck, “And who said anything about that?”

“Your body did,” he replied, and Crowley had to suppress a tired sigh – didn't that line went out of fashion around the 30s? “there's no need to say anything.”

She giggled again, a tiny Tinkerbell thing, as the man started kissing her neck. “Well, maybe we can all have a good time. Share a meal, so to speak.” She all but smiled her most charming smile, secretly hungry but more designed to make others starving. She licked the salt off her lips. “What do you think, boys?”

They all smiled, and she shivered under their desire for her body.

It was no secret that Crowley loved attention, from loved ones and strangers alike. The sway of her hips, the price tags one could read on the hem of her shirts, the sweet smell of her skin; the hours she spent in front of her gigantic mirror one could see in her perfect make-up and hairdo, seldom using a miracle – unless she was late for a date, in which case she grimaced at herself and snapped her fingers. She wouldn't be particularly proud of herself in those occasions, but Aziraphale would kiss her wrist and the palm of her hand, and every trace of disappointment would evaporate from her.

Tonight, feeling neglected by the world, she decided to put on a coquettish pout and her new glitter eyeliner paired with one the shortest dress (but not the absolute shortest, that was an exclusive view for Aziraphale) and out in the world (open, welcoming) she was. She went directly to one of her favourite clubs, one she knew wouldn't be too packed with people, deep green walls and food Aziraphale loathed. She tempted the first three men that picked up her attention, swimming in their unadulterated attention. She didn't really want to bed them but, since they wanted to believe it, she let them hope. Men were so much funnier with the promise of sex.

(not the dick pics. She hated dick pics, to which she replied with pictures of her own cock. She had a small collection of them, twenty or so, that she kept at hand, that she also shared with other girls and women on the internet. She also had taken pictures of her cock in a more snake-y form, after realizing not all men hated seeing another cock.)

Crowley swatted away a hand that tried to sneak under her dress. “Not in public!”

“No? Dressed like this, I thought you were all about voyeurism,” Tentacle Man snickered. Cocktail Man offered her a sip, and Crisps Man handed her some salted peanuts. She sucked on one of them.

“Well, yes, usually I am, but it's rude not to ask before touching.” She lightly bit her lips, leaving a delicate kiss under his chin.

“Oh, I'm glad you remember some kind of manners, dear girl.”

Crowley whipped her head around to see her beaming wife, her face shining like the sun just with a hint of a smile.

“Angel!”, Crowley chirped, jumping off Tentacle Man's lap, but not moving towards her wife. He felt some kind of emptiness and circled her waist; Crowley let him.

“I see you're having fun, love,” Aziraphale smiled, hands in her trouser pockets. “Care to introduce me to these fine gentlemen?”

“Oh, just some new friends,” she smiled back, stroking Crisps Man's sharp jaw, “I needed attention, but you were too busy reading to even kiss me, so I went somewhere I knew I would be appreciated. And my new friends appreciate me very much, isn't that right boys?”

They nodded like puppets. Crowley flashed a mere hint of her canines to them.

Aziraphale's smile widened a bit. Crowley loved how her body was softer, plumper, filling even better her usual clothes. She was sure it was the tits; she was burning with the desire to sink her face between them. Aziraphale even had her shirt sleeves rolled up, showing her forearms to everyone, and that was illegal. They should arrest her.

“You didn't ask me for a kiss, darling.”

“'cause I already knew you wouldn't give me one and I didn't want to get frustrated.”

“So you decided to make a little harlot of yourself, instead.”

Crowley's eyelashes fluttered, and she slightly chewed on her bottom lip. She was wearing a cheap lipstick, so she could leave traces everywhere she went, like Tom Thumb, even if she didn't have to pinpoint anything to Aziraphale, as she was already her home.

“Yes,” she replied quite bravely and, oh, wasn't that an almost demonic smirk she saw on her wife's face lines? She was so incredibly stunning, Crowley felt weak at the knees. She just wanted to surrender to her and her storm eyes.

“Is there a problem?”, asked Cocktail Man, the more neglected of them, but before he could rise to the defence of a woman he didn't know (despite the fact Crowley did behave like a harlot), Aziraphale placed a hand on his shoulder. “Would you be so kind to mind your business, mate? I'm talking to my wife. I think she can handle it, as you all do.”

As Tentacle Man, feeling threatened, tightened her grip around Crowley, she briefly fantasized about being thoroughly fucked by the three men while Aziraphale watched, maybe giving instructions. She was such a generous lover (and ingenious, and so so clever with her tongue) she would make sure that every experience would be perfect for Crowley. She sighed, warm around the belly.

“We're going home right this instant, poppet,” Aziraphale commanded in that voice that Crowley sometimes found annoying, when she lectured her about how was unnecessary to scare the postman so much (especially because she would find having a snake wife very useful when a vendor tried to sell them an expired bagel), but now – oh, now it went right through her brain like an arrow on fire. She pouted, though.

“So I can watch you read all night? No thank you. I was offered som--”

She didn't get the chance to finish the sentence because Aziraphale snatched her from Tentacle Man and hauled her on her shoulder, with a quick slap on her bottom.

“It seems you're coming anyway. Goodnight, gentlemen.” She snapped her fingers before they could even thought about saying something, erasing every speck of Crowley from their mind.

Crowley, heart beating like a rabbit's in her ears, kicked her legs and squealed “Angel! Lemme down! We're in public!”

“As you were before, but it didn't stop you from that little lewd show, did it? A little walk of shame it's what you deserve,” and she punctuated it with another slap.

“Stop!”, Crowley shrieked as they walked towards the exit door. Aziraphale stopped in her tracks, sighed, and stroked her thigh, slowly.

“If you're about to cause a scene, darling,” she spoke, voice clear and lake-still, “I will be more than happy to deal with it in public. Do you want it?”

Crowley gulped, fisting her shirt. “... no?”

“Good. Let us get out of here, then.” She slapped her again, a little more forcefully this time, gaining an outraged yelp.

Outside, the air was chill, delicate on the skin – at least, as delicate as an April evening can be in London – and soon filled with sparkling laughter.

“You've always been such a good actress, angel,” Crowley snickered, awe-struck. “We should roleplay way more often. Can we be nuns the next time? Oh no, wait, I want to be a student! Grammar school or university? I think grammar school. I have the perfect uniform and you bought that wooden ruler last month that looks so sturdy.”

“How do you know that?”

“You _accidentally_ left it near my phone the last time I put salt in your tea.”

“Ah, yes. A good deterrent, it seems.”

“I'll let you think that.”

It took a little for Crowley to fully realize Aziraphale still had an iron grip around her, as people around them started to look at the middle aged lesbian with a skimpy sack of potatoes on her shoulder. They were not particularly impressed, though; London was full of way stranger and more curious things.

“Angel, you know I have working legs, right?”

“I do, but I'm enjoying this view very much.”

Crowley didn't reply to that, as she didn't really want to be put down. She also very much enjoyed the view of her wife's back and arse, as she squeezed it and contently sighed. Aziraphale was so much stronger than her and just thinking about it melt something in her stomach.

Before she could notice, Aziraphale had snapped her fingers once again, stripping her to her underwear.

“Aziraphale!”, she screeched, as she had done for the last ten minutes, “You can't do this in public, for Someone's sake!”

“You know I made sure the humans couldn't see us, love.”

Nevertheless Crowley squirmed a bit, looking around at the people they were passing through. They still were throwing glances at them, but the same as before. Again, there were more peculiar things in London than an almost naked woman limp on her partner's shoulder.

Aziraphale cupped one of her buttocks, sliding a finger under her panties. “You're wearing my favourite set of lingerie, how darling.”

“Is it? Must be a coincidence. I had no idea you've ever looked at me, busy with your books as you always are. They sure get more cuddles than me, a poor neglected demon who had never done nothing wrong in her entire life.”

“Don't be a brat.”

“Or what?”

Aziraphale kissed her thigh, a butterfly touch of the lips. “I can spank you on that bench and make sure we have a wide audience, if you like.”

Crowley moaned so loudly that a couple did turn around to look at her. She hissed at them and they walked away faster than before.

“You sure get off on this exhibitionism thing, angel.”

“I like making other people jealous, showing you off.”

“And what that has anything to do with a spanking?”

“Because you're incredibly pretty when you cry.”

Crowley pouted and squirmed. “You're pretty when you cry,” she grumbled.

Once in the alley when the Bentley was parked, Aziraphale put her down on the bonnet of the car, carefully as if she were a doll. So strong yet so delicate, sighed Crowley as her wife kissed her.

“I can't drive us home like this, angel,” she laughed between kisses. Aziraphale spread her legs, dragging her nearer. “And I thought you wanted to go home.”

“I think I changed my mind. I noticed how beautiful the sky is, tonight,” Aziraphale murmured on her neck in languid whispers, dark honey dripping from her pulse to her collarbones, pooling in their hollows, “and I want the stars to see you.”

A hand delicately on Crowley's breast, a clever finger stroking her nipple over the bra's fabric, lace and embroidered tiny flowers. “You're stunning under the moon's light, Crowley, my love.” She traced the profile of her collarbones from under the chin to her shoulder, lowering the thin strap without taking the bra off. “So lovely, all flushed and pretty for me...”

“'m not -”

“Don't contradict me, darling, be good.”

“Or what?”, she asked once again, cheekily, but with shorter breath than before – that didn't stop her from smirking. Aziraphale took her wrist, bit it lightly and then kissed the delicate bones of the back of her hand.

“Or I'll make you drive us home right now, without taking proper care of you first. I know you can't deny me anything, dove. Is it what you want? Drive in your lingerie, wet and desperate but forbidden to come for a week?”

“A we- why! You couldn't be so cruel!”

“Are you sure, dear?”

Crowley scanned her wife's eyes, searching for even a hint of bluffing: she found none. “... no,” she sheepishly replied. “I'll behave.”

“I don't want you to behave, I just want you to accept that you're how I see you.”

Crowley, cheeks bright and red, groaned, loudly, and widened her thighs. “Can we postpone all the psychological stuff? I reeeeeaaaaally need -” she took Aziraphale's hand, guiding it between her legs, “something else from you, now.”

Aziraphale smiled like a satisfied cat, belly full of birds. She started circling over the wet spots on her panties, pushing a finger for just half a second. “Do you, love? And what exactly do you need for me? May you tell me?”

Crowley bit her lips, trying her best femme fatale look that usually worked with horny strangers, but Aziraphale just raised an eyebrow: she saw her crying her heart out over a cartoon about a cat and his seagull daughter, after all. She had built some sort of immunity against her cheapest tricks. Her fingers walking on her wife's arm, she looked at her through her lashes. “Shouldn't _you_ tell me what I want? Since you seem to feel like more than a bit bossy, today...”

As Aziraphale's gaze sharpened immediately, Crowley realized she had just had the most terrible idea of the evening, or maybe the whole week.

Aziraphale stopped touching her, and she whined – but her wife gripped her sharp hips instead. “You won't want to be touched until you said five nice things about you. You love being teased and suffer, after all.”

“What!”, Crowley squeaked, “That's unfair! Unjust! You're spending way too much time on AO3 -” and then she shut up because it was her fault. Aziraphale laughed.

“Nevertheless, these are the rules.”

Crowley whined loudly and stopped herself from stomping her feet just in time. She pouted so hard it was almost physically painful to look at, but Aziraphale looked rather unfazed.

“Can I have a kiss first, at least?”

Aziraphale smiled. “Sure, darling.”

Crowley hooked her legs around Aziraphale's waist and kissed her fiercely, smearing lipstick all over her face. With her hands locked in her gorgeous wife's fair hair, Crowley's mouth trailed from her jaw to her neck.

“Darling, you can't weasel your way out of this...”, sighed Aziraphale, her hands still on Crowley's hips, steadier than ever despite her frayed breath. “Be good so we can both have fun.”

“Aren't we having fun already?”

“I'd very much like to fuck you, love.”

“Nothing's stopping you but your dumb made-up rule.”

Crowley arched her back, offering her neck like a volunteering prey, a brainwashed hare. Aziraphale kissed her pulse just once, sucking on it so briefly it was almost just a whisper of air.

“Darling...”, she sighed, her voice bordering on vaguely threatening. Crowley slammed her fist on the car.

“I'm a demon! You can't tame me! I am no bird and no net ensnares me!”

“Are you quoting Jane Eyre to me hoping that would weaken my resolution?”

“... did it work?”

“No, but I'm incredibly attracted to you right now.”

“Show it to me, then.”

Aziraphale deeply sighed. “You're unbelievably bratty this evening.”

“And you're unbelievably bastard...y this evening.”

Crowley was tense, her frown deep and frustrated. Aziraphale's stern face melted a bit, and she caressed her wife's cheek. “This is too hard for you, sweetheart, isn't it?”

Crowley nodded, fumbling a bit with her bow-tie. She was about to claim victory when Aziraphale kissed her forehead and smugly said: “Too bad it's what I want. You'll be happy afterwards, because I'll be very happy.”

Crowley groaned. She wanted to fight again, but she suspected it would be useless. “I hate you.”

“I know.” Aziraphale stroked her thighs, fingers dangerously close to her cunt, but without any thought of actually touching it; her hands roamed on the lace of her panties, of her bra, without even one satisfying touch. She stroked her jaw, a thumb over her lips. (Aziraphale would touch her so much, inside and outside the bedroom. Not a day passed without hundred of kisses, hugs, cuddle sessions on the sofa. She would hold her hand while grocery shopping, eating breakfast outside a café, at the cinema and during plays; as she fucked her, Aziraphale never left her without the comforting weight of her hands. She had become so affectionate when they broke free of Heaven and Hell, as to make up for all the time they wasted.) “Well, since I'm not actually that cruel...”, she started again, leaving the smallest of kisses on Crowley's nose, neck, collarbones, “I'm going to kneel. Then, when you say the first good fact, I'm going to start kissing your ankles. Then your knees, maybe your thighs. Then your stomach, maybe your breasts if I'm feeling generous. And then...”

Aziraphale brushed her cunt, and Crowley bucked her hips towards her hand just to be denied a mere touch.

“Quickly, if you please,” Aziraphale smiled as she kneeled.

Crowley gulped down air. “I'm...”, Crowley started, watching her wife and her smug grin. She gulped again. It was hard, but not harder than having her wife on her knees, ready to worship her. “My taste in clothes. 's good. I dress impeccably.”

“You sure do,” replied Aziraphale, planting slow kisses on her right ankle, then the left, the tip of her tongue on the delicate bones. (Aziraphale loved to tell her how dainty her body was to her, how deliciously fragile; she rejoiced in being able to pick her up whenever she pleased.)

“And – I have an exceptional taste in music.”

“My bepop girl.” Mouth on the knees and behind, when the skin was softer; hands on the thigh, kneading the flesh. She kissed them, but never ventured inside. Crowley let out a frustrated moan.

“Never say that again, please. I – I know things? I know a lot about pottery, and Italy Renaissance, and the stars, and you like listening to me, so I know I'm good, because you get bored easily.”

“Because you're passionate and entertaining.”

Teeth around her bellybutton, tongue licking long stripes from the hip to the ribcage. Goosebumps all over her body, cruel claws pinching her strings.

“Angel, three is a prime number like five, they're almost the same things, can you please fuck me?”, she begged as Aziraphale didn't seem interested in even just touching her breasts.

“You want me to say the same thing when you'll ask me for a cunnilingus? That kissing you counts as eating you out?”

Aziraphale trailed her nails inside Crowley's thigh, lips dangerously close to her chest.

“Why do you hate me so much, angel?”

“Au contraire, my love. I adore you enough to wanting – no, demanding – you see yourself as I do.”

“But I can't -”

“You will, beloved. Be quick now, I'm dying to fuck you.”

“But you -”

“If you're about to say that I can you're going to have to come up with seven more nice things about yourself. And don't whine about how cruel I am, we've already established that.”

Crowley whined, quite loudly, anyway, and demanded a kiss for good behaviour. Aziraphale granted one, but one that was too quick and light, leaving Crowley more hungry than before.

“Nnnnngk... I make a very good coffee and you appreciate my desserts very much and – I'm... faithful? I never stopped loving you even when I was hopeless? That counts, right?”

Aziraphale's smile was so big and beautiful and pure and perfect Crowley felt actually moved by that and she stifled a little sob biting her tongue. “Yes, it does. When you love something you're a force to be reckoned with.”

“Yeah, yeah, can you fuck me now?”

Crowley didn't wait for an answer, but simply slithered off the bonnet and not so graciously presented herself to Aziraphale, arse in the air, very slightly wiggling. “Just so you know, if you're not quick I'm going to scream so much you're going to jail for assault and I will not bail you out.”

A grey cloud, streaked with magenta, escaped from Aziraphale as she pressed her chest to Crowley's back, the buttons of her shirt hard between her ribs. Aziraphale traced her shoulder blades, tickling with her tongue the invisible lines of her wings; she sucked love bites on her smooth skin as she slid two fingers in her with obscene ease. “My lovely demon,” she murmured as Crowley screamed, high pitched behind her hands, “what a perfect gift you are. Stunning. I love you so very much, my beloved darling, my own.”

Crowley arched her back, shivering and glittering under the stars, eyelids fluttering with pleasure. Aziraphale's hands were heavy with purpose, with ownership; soft fingers around her breast, squeezing gently, brushing her nipple. Crowley had learned to love being vulnerable and open ( _like a wound_ , she had thought at first, when even opening her legs was troublesome, humiliating; _like a sunflower_ , she thought now, when Aziraphale touched her in the morning, when she asked her what she wanted) as Aziraphale had always taken such good care of her, anticipating her wishes, teaching her how her body worked and how to separate the good from the bad sensations, how to understand her limits, how to ask for things and never feel ashamed for them.

Aziraphale fucked her with fierce hunger, singing her praises, and Crowley's legs were so weak it was a proper miracle she was able to stand up. As if Aziraphale had guessed, she picked her up; Crowley was confused for a second, before finding herself again on the bonnet of the Bentley, thighs impossibly spread open and Aziraphale between them, sucking and licking until she felt overwhelmed and empty of herself and full of her wife instead, the brim of her consciousness expanding like a star explosion until her universe was just Aziraphale and her tongue. She came with her legs on Aziraphale's shoulders.

The evening was turning into night, the air was starting to feel chill on her skin; Crowley shivered, and Aziraphale looked at her, and was hungry again.

“You're looking at me as if I were a box of eclairs,” she laughed, her breath still erratic.

“You're infinitely more delectable,” Aziraphale smirked, devouring her mouth again, kissing it clean from the last smudges of lipstick. As Crowley responded with slight less enthusiasm than before, Aziraphale stopped and looked at her.

“Do you wish to continue, darling?”

As Crowley was about to say yes, just because her angel seemed to want to, she lowered her head. “No?”

“Is that a question for me, love? Look at me, please.”

Crowley obeyed, and shook her head. “Cuddles, please.”

“Of course, sweetling.”

Aziraphale snapped her fingers, moving them into the Bentley with a tartan blanket made three sizes bigger than it originally was, for which Crowley was glad. Aziraphale put her in her lap, and she nuzzled her neck.

“I give good cuddles even if I'm bony and pointy,” she murmured, dreamy and warm. Aziraphale fed her one the biscuits she kept under her seat; it tasted like cinnamon and butter.

“That you do,” Aziraphale replied, slowly kissing the crown of her hair.

“We're not going again in that club,” she lamented, “my cocktails sucked.”

“As you wish. I thought you wanted our next game to be in a more familiar setting. I can replicate a classroom on the first floor of the shop.”

“Yesssss, please. Can we brainstorm ideas? I was thinking about giving my character a bit of background.”

Eyes twinkling with the sacred fire of storytelling, Crowley started to regain her strength, but didn't say anything, because Aziraphale was hugging her tight, and she wanted to live in that hug forever. “I love you,” she said out of the blue in the middle of the painful past of Antoine Jacques, “I love you very much. May I have another biscuit? Salted caramel, please.”

She munched on the biscuit, and Aziraphale kissed her a thousand times, and the night melted into a clear morning; but they kept talking and talking and talking until it was evening again, satisfied and happy – the very concept of happiness.


End file.
